Stressed Out
by damneron
Summary: For a time of celebration, Poe Dameron is sure having a hell of a hard time celebrating. Rated M for later chapters. Stormpilot in later chapters. Post-TFA, spoiler heavy.


After a war, life is just... _weird_. It takes an uncomfortable amount of time for things to go back to normal, and for you to stop waking up in the middle of the night close to tears because you can't breathe. You spend a good amount of time up, pacing, and hoping no one else is in the same boat. Sometimes you see Snap in the middle of the night, working on his X-Wing and giving you that look. It's the 'I'm not going to emasculate either of us by saying something, but we both know why we're here' look. Fifty percent humiliating, fifty percent heartwarming-as always.

Poe Dameron had spent every night outside, in the cold, tinkering with whatever he could 'fix' with his ship, since Starkiller. Two weeks, fourteen nights, and he'd probably done more than good on the thing. Without BB-8's help, he found himself a little lost sometimes-like when he was pretty sure he managed to destroy the hyperdrive by removing _one screw_. Snap had to help him the next day with that. Finn helped him calm down and _breathe_ that night. It was a weird thing to do, knocking on the door to Finn's cabin at 0300. Not even General Organa was awake, and for the longest time people were convinced she never even _slept_. It was also weird to just walk in when the poor guy, half asleep, opened the door and gave the frailest _is everything okay?_ Poe had ever heard.

"Can I just sleep on your couch?" And another weird thing. If the look on his face hadn't been enough, the way his fists were clenched. They matched with his jaw, which Poe hadn't even realized was tight enough to cause an ache. His shoulders had enough knots to replace BB-8's stabilization system the old fashioned way. "I think my room's infested with something, and if I wanted to sleep with raiths I'd go back home."

There were always rumors of rodent infestations here and there and in the mess hall and the ships. They'd suffice as an excuse.

"Yeah," Finn would have said something polite like 'come right in', but Poe was already halfway through the door. Even with how tired he was, it was easy to see that something was wrong. "make yourself at home..." Before Poe could sit himself down on the couch (which was really supposed to be a fold-up bed for when things got too cramped-war hero status had its perks), Finn was already moving blankets. His own blankets, not the scratchy extras tucked away. His own bed barren, he set the pile down, going to work on folding the blanket just right, assuring that Poe could be sandwiched comfortably between a few layers. Even with their best efforts at keeping up comforts, it was cold.

"Hey, hey, don't do that," Poe objected, albeit passively, "I'm fine with my jacket-I've slept through worse." Like, perhaps, while standing and strapped to a board for easy access to all the important organs. The First Order was efficient, Poe had to give them that. Never waste time having your prisoner sit or stand, just leave them strapped down and guess what? It'll double as another torture method. His knees still hadn't recovered, and he wasn't sure if he would even wish that many hours of standing in one position on anyone.

Finn seemed confused at best. "You'll freeze your fingers," An unexpectedly polite word choice for a Resistance base, "if you don't use a blanket. It's okay, we all have extras in the closet-"

"I'll be fine."

Before then, Finn wasn't sure if he'd ever seen him outright snap at someone. It hadn't been long, but... well, he didn't seem the type. Even when the two of them were escaping, it was Poe that was calm, cool, and collected. Finn stared at the pile of blankets for a few moments before slowly starting to ball them up. Sometimes it was just better not to argue, and this time seemed like one of them. Still, he left behind one: The smallest, because even if Poe wanted to argue that he was taking something away, a 4x4 blanket wasn't doing anyone any good anyway.

It was twenty minutes before either of them said another word. Poe was afraid of making things worse, and Finn sat in the same little angsty boat. It was at that moment that Poe knew: Neither of them were sleeping that night. Suggestive as it sounds, it wasn't something he was looking forward to. It was going to be an argument, or tears, or another panic attack, or some other terrible, terrible thing that was already giving him a fair bit of tightness in his chest. No, it wasn't tightness, it was heaviness _and_ tightness, and an all together impossible feeling that there was absolutely nothing sitting behind his ribs. No heart, no soul, none of that stuff that makes life feel like anything.

"I'm sorry, Finn." He finally said. His hands were clasped together, elbows resting on his knees as he hunched forward. He'd been staring at the ground, contemplating if he should just go while Finn seemed to be desperately trying to get some sleep. He was wiggling too much and breathing too quickly to be anywhere near the reprieve of awkwardness. "Thank you for blankets."

The only reason Finn didn't pretend to be asleep was the sound of Poe's boots hitting the floor once, twice, and three times towards the door. He sat up, shifting so he could look right at him. Whatever was going on, it wasn't going to be solved with silence. "Are you okay?"


End file.
